


distance

by Program



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anonymous FTM, Anxiety, Depression, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Transgender, dfab, pre-transition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 14:17:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Program/pseuds/Program
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There was an uncomfortable distance between what he looked like and who he really was.</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I need to get it out</p>
            </blockquote>





	distance

**Author's Note:**

> I highly recommend not reading if you don't think you want to hear someone elses experience with gender dysphoria, because I'm going into detail certain emotions I've personally gone through just to get them out of my head.
> 
> Because otherwise they'll stew and expand and explode and it'll only end badly, so I need them out.
> 
> This is coupled with art by myself.  
> [aaaart](http://kaijudrift.tumblr.com/post/75036020076/theres-an-uncomfortable-distance-between-what-i)
> 
> Just trying to level myself out.

The morning started as it always did, waking up. He felt good, it was a good morning.

He took his meds, the ones for his bipolar and took a shower, made some eggs and bacon, some coffee.

His hands smoothed down his stomach, scratching at an itch just above his pelvis before he comfortably tied his robe closed, running fingers through his still damp hair, expecting it to dry in some ridiculous position.

 

He pondered the day, what he could do, the things he could accomplish. His boyfriend, he could call him, maybe play that game they both liked together. Maybe do some reading, he was almost done with that fanfic, the one he really liked, he might even read it a second time just to be doubly sure he'd never forget the excellent prose.

Maybe.

He checked his phone for the calls and texts he'd likely missed while he was asleep, making for his bed where his laptop waited for him as it always did, likely tired of his shit at this point.

He glimpsed something out of the corner of his eye, and instinctively turned to look, making sure it wasn't somehow something in his house despite the fact that he _knew_ that there was nothing but a wall and dresser and a mirror in that direction. Still, he had to be sure.

He paused, hand cradling his phone so lovingly falling to his side as his content, idle smile slipped into a soft frown, and then further down.

His focus narrowed in on how small his waist was where the robe was cinched, held shut. It narrowed in on the slightest glimpse of his chest through the v of where the two sides of the robe closed over it, where the skin curved softly instead of continuing in flat plains down to his stomach the way they should, but weren't.

His entire morning glow came crashing down like glass as he turned to face the mirror despite his best judgement, coldly scrutinizing his own face, how soft his hair curled down towards his face instead of up like he wanted it to. All the things that just _weren't doing what he fucking wanted them to_.

His eyelashes were too long.

His lips too full.

His jaw line was soft and cushioned by tender, flushed cheeks, now drained pale by his increasing discomfort.

His jaw set as he clenched his teeth behind closed lips, as if trying to make it look firmer, adjusting his posture with a hand on his stomach, feeling how soft it was through the fabric, despite how thin he was.

He liked to believe, sometimes, that his body type was more average in nature, which would explain a bit of cushion here and there, nothing wrong with that. But he was too thin for that.

He worried his bottom lip between his teeth, trying to adjust posture, view himself from different angles, cover his body a certain way with the terry cloth robe in order to disguise the sloping curves underneath.

Unbidden, a memory of a recent compliment flitted through his thought, how lovely he was, what a _lovely young lady_.

He tried to imagine himself taller, broader, flatter, with more muscle, a beard accenting the firm set of a square jaw, thicker eyebrows.

It wasn't working, it usually worked to calm him down but nothing could overlap the image of a woman in the mirror where a man should be standing.

Usually he could ignore it, because he was certain of who he was, and didn't go out often enough to really care what others thought of his appearance, but it wasn't _working_.

Slowly he slid off the robe, watching inch after inch of soft, freckled flesh reveal itself.

Really, he was sure that the woman staring back at him was beautiful, not in his opinion, it simply wasn't what he was into, but he could appreciate a beautiful woman when he saw one. If only it were as easy as pretending the mirror was just a window with someone else staring back.

He vaguely remembered Mulan, something about reflections not showing who they were inside, and a bitter laughter bubbled up mixed with a strangled sob as he tried not to cry and utterly failed. Of course.

_Of fucking course_.

He ran his hands down his body, watching as the woman in the mirror mimicked his actions, exploring what she likely already knew, but seemed to want something else, a look in her eyes that he could relate to.

His face contorted in sick disgust as he felt the lumps of her chest on his own body, traveling down his own soft stomach and spreading his hands out to feel the inward curve of his waist, before it sloped back outwards into his hips, wide for purposes he was sure he never wanted to partake in.

He stopped at his hips, because the woman in the mirror was crying and he wanted to console her. She looked like she could use a friend, someone who understood her plight, and he reached out for a moment as she reached back and he froze, shocked.

Right, that's right. Sometimes he forgot. Sometimes he was all too self aware and sometimes he detached himself so far from his own physicality just to forget why he was so sad to begin with.

His attention trailed over the sores littering his body, knowing he could probably just look down, but seeing it as a whole seemed more terrifying, where he'd fidgeted and picked at blemishes and scabs, disallowing them to heal and only making them worse.

Scars of this nature littered his thighs and forearms, speckling of self-destruction that did nobody any good, but it just happened, when he was scared, he picked and scratched, and it was a haven for his hands to destroy the body he did not seem to want, though he knew he shouldn't.

He brushed a hand over a recent one just above and inwards of his right breast, red with irritation and possible infection. It made him feel sick and he couldn't stand looking at himself anymore.

He hated his body, it disgusted him. Twenty one stupid years of anxiety because nobody told him that he was allowed to be who he wanted to be.

Twenty one stupid years of trying to be a girl because the media told him that he should want to be, because that's the way he was born.

Because the world was a dark, dark place full of violence and phobia and destruction.

Because he was too damn blind to recognize obvious distress borne of his own sex. Really, when he thought back on it, it was the dumbest shit.

It was obvious now that he had all the pieces to the puzzle. Well, maybe one or two were missing.

The anxiety had gotten better since he'd come out, and aside from the occasional freak out, he was fine. And then there were these stupid moments where he cast himself into a bucket of self pity and tried to victimize himself, and then tried to be strong for himself, and then crumbled under the pressure of trying to decide what _society_ would think was the proper way to react, always forgetting that one fundamental rule that he should just do what made him happy.

_Oh fucking well._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
